Part 6

Kao-Shih

Circa A.D. 700

One of the most fascinating of all the T`ang poets. His life was one long series of romantic adventure. At first, a poor youth battling with adversity; then the lover of an actress, whom he followed through the provinces, play-writing for the strolling troupe to which she was attached; the next, secretary to a high personage engaged in a mission to Thibet; then soldier, and finally poet of renown, acquiring with his latter years the fortune and honours denied him in his youth.

The chief characteristics of his poetry are intense concentration, a vivid power of impressionism, and a strong leaning in the direction of the occult. Indeed, one of his best-known poems, "The Return to the Mountains", makes mention of the projection of the astral body through space during sleep. Many of his poems leave us with a strange sense of horror which is suggested rather than revealed. It is always some combination of effects which produces this result, and never a concrete form.

Impressions of a Traveller

In a silent, desolate spot, In the night stone-frozen and clear, The wanderer's hand on the sail Is gripped by the fingers of fear.

He looketh afar o'er the waves, Wind-ruffled and deep and green; And the mantle of Autumn lies Over wood and hill and ravine.

'Tis Autumn! -- time of decay, And the dead leaves' 'wildering flight; And the mantle of Autumn lies On the wanderer's soul to-night!

Desolation

There was a King of Liang* -- a king of wondrous might -- Who kept an open palace, where music charmed the night --

Since he was Lord of Liang a thousand years have flown, And of the towers he builded yon ruin stands alone.

III

There reigns a heavy silence; gaunt weeds through windows pry, And down the streets of Liang old echoes, wailing, die.

-- * Strictly speaking, the pronunciation of all words such as Liang, Kiang, etc., is nearer one syllable than two. For purposes of euphony, however, without which the lines would be harsh and unpoetical, I have invariably made two syllables of them. --

Meng Hao-jan

A.D. 689-740

One of the few literary men of the day whose later life was devoted entirely to literature. He was the inseparable friend of the famous Buddhist poet and doctor, Wang Wei. He spent the first forty years of his life in acquiring knowledge, but having failed to obtain his doctor's degree, he returned to the quiet hills of his native province and dedicated his remaining years to composition. Most of his poems, other than certain political satire, which drew on him the Emperor's wrath, are full of subtle sadness and fragrant regret, reminding one of pot-pourri in some deep blue porcelain bowl.

The Lost One

The red gleam o'er the mountains Goes wavering from sight, And the quiet moon enhances The loveliness of night.

I open wide my casement To breathe the rain-cooled air. And mingle with the moonlight The dark waves of my hair.

The night wind tells me secrets Of lotus lilies blue; And hour by hour the willows Shake down the chiming dew.

I fain would take the zither, By some stray fancy led; But there are none to hear me, And who can charm the dead?

So all my day-dreams follow The bird that leaves the nest; And in the night I gather The lost one to my breast.

A Friend Expected

Over the chain of giant peaks The great red sun goes down, And in the stealthy floods of night The distant valleys drown.

Yon moon that cleaves the gloomy pines Has freshness in her train; Low wind, faint stream, and waterfall Haunt me with their refrain.

The tired woodman seeks his cot That twinkles up the hill; And sleep has touched the wanderers That sang the twilight still.

To-night -- ah! beauty of to-night I need my friend to praise, So take the lute to lure him on Through the fragrant, dew-lit ways.